


Your Ghost

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Yer aw’right, mate.' No. Assuredly not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Ghost

That night:

Slightly drunk--staggering, steadying. Lamp stays off (won’t see where he is not).Turn on telly for the noise. News. No. Change. Chat show. Silly celebrity talks about hating school. (Didn’t they all. . .) Work shoes off with opposite feet, catch balance on arm of his chair. Yank hand away: burning, freezing. Solid, undeniable. True.

( _No_.)

More than “slightly” drunk.

Slump in chair (facing his empty one; do not look). Fumble mobile from pocket. Scroll to his name. Tap “Call.” Listen. Rings forever. _Answer me. Answer me. I know it’s late. Wake up and answer me._

_Wake up._

_Answer._

Ringing stops. [. . .] “Call Ended.” [. . .]. Phone goes dark.

Press smooth, cool screen against rough, dry lips. Close eyes. Breathe.

_Breathe._

(Really very drunk, honestly.)

Press phone to chest.

Reflection in window is tragic, familiar. Smile. _Yer aw’right, mate._ No. Assuredly not. Revive phone with thumb. Hangnail, probably infected. Press with forefinger: tiny agony burns, steals breath, thrums low in gut like desire (a different agony). Scroll to his name. 

Type (sloppily, drunk): Last nigght dreamt you weere riding in a taXi that ran.me over..,

Type: Don’tworry though I survived it.

Think: I will never survive this.

Think: I have not eaten in three days.

Think: My hands are too empty now.

Wonder what that even means. Drunk. Stupid. Set phone on knee (just in case). Rest head on folded arms (awkward). Let eyes close. Fall asleep to thirty-minute commercial on telly advertising blanket.

Dream _._

He fires a gun. Look down at bleeding chest. Heart exposed. Blue. Beating (but slow). Look at his face: pale, open, sad, sorry.

“You’re all right, mate,” he whispers.

Beating, blue heart slides out onto floor. Watch it. He watches it, eyes tilted, pale, staring forever.

Think: My hands are too empty.

Think: I am made of soft.

Think: I will never survive this.

Jolt awake. Phone slides off thigh. Catch it, scroll to his name.

Type: Answer me.

Type: Wake up and answer me.

Type: Come home. Please. Come home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant as a "double-drabble" of 200 words; in my typical long-winded fashion, I made it a "triple-plus." :-)
> 
> Inspired by Kristin Hersh and Michael Stipe's beautiful song, "Your Ghost." You can hear it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g26ed_ujqcM


End file.
